Widespread panic A novel

Review by Booklist Review

Freddy Otash, the real-life antihero of Ellroy's latest look into the dark side of mid-twentieth-century L.A., began his nefarious career as a rogue cop but quickly discovered his true calling--sleaze-finder for the notorious tabloid Confidential, the "meshugenah Magna Carta" for those craving celebrity dirt. Freddy was a natural, combining ruthless strong-arming with a flair for research (often at the public library), quickly becoming the "hellhound who held Hollywood captive." But, in 2020, 28 years after his death, Freddy is in Purgatory, with one chance at escape: confess his sins, which include outing the libidinous cavortings of James Dean (and the entire cast of Rebel without a Cause), Rock Hudson, JFK, Marlon Brando, and many, many more. Cue the alliteration: with Freddy as his mouthpiece, Ellroy is free to riff unchecked, be-bopping his way through "shaman of shame" and "pervdog peeper and priapic pad prowler," all in the service of exposing '50s Hollywood as the "most gorgeously perverted and cosmetically moralistic place on God's green fucking Earth." There is one through line here, about Freddy's attempt to help his true love, actress Lois Nettleton, get convicted killer Caryl Chessman to confess his sins, but, finally, this is all about style, a wildly flamboyant, often overweening, but spectacular explosion of language. For those with a taste for foul-mouthed fireworks and free-form jazz solos, both dazzling and exhausting, Ellroy is your man.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This devious and delicious side trip into the life and exploits of real-life Hollywood fixer Fred Otash from MWA Grand Master Ellroy (The Storm) has a cool conceit: Otash dies of a massive coronary in 1992, but has spent the last three decades stuck in purgatory, and his only way out is a full confession of his lifetime of misdeeds; and confess Otash does. In the 1950s, Otash transforms himself from bent cop to even more crooked private eye, delivering the dirt on Hollywood celebs, outing communist party members, and exposing then-verboten interracial relationships. When puritanical Chief William Parker of the LAPD builds a righteous legal case against Otash, he strikes a deal to let the ex-cop slide in exchange for help in taking down the salacious tabloid Confidential. And so Otash embarks on a dangerous path of playing both sides against the middle. Numerous celebrities appear in suitably compromising positions, including Rock Hudson, Jack Kennedy, and a sizzling cast of Hollywood femmes fatale. The infamous rape spree of Caryl Chessman (aka the Red Light Bandit) adds another layer of sordidness. Ellroy's total command of the jazzy, alliterative argot of the era never fails to astonish. This is a must for L.A. noir fans. (June)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A noirish romp through the sewage of 1950s Hollywood sleaze. This entertainingly hop-headed narrative seems to occupy a tangled place in the author's often cross-connected oeuvre. It isn't the anticipated third volume in his historically epic Second L.A. Quartet, the prequel series to the L.A. Quartet, which provided his popular breakthrough--particularly after L.A. Confidential (1990) inspired such a well-received movie. Instead, it expands on the material the author explored in his novella Shakedown (2012), the confessions from purgatory of a crooked cop--turned--extortionist private investigator. Those coming to this fresh will find the author operating at maximum efficiency, mainlining a primo blend of over-the-top alliteration and down-in-the-gutter scandal. The book takes the form of the post-mortem confession of Hollywood scenester Freddy Otash, narrating from what he calls "pervert purgatory" as "the hellhound who held Hollywood captive." It was an era when scandal sheets moralized against homosexuals and communist sympathizers and where Freddy lives by a simple credo: "I'll do anything short of murder. I'll work for anyone but the Reds." A good case can be made that he has violated both. His escapades find him involved with discovering the murderer of a woman who had recently been both JFK's seductress and a proposed participant in a threesome intended to underscore Rock Hudson's sexual bona fides. Yet any mystery, or any plot, actually, simply serves as a peg on which the author hangs the supposedly dirty laundry of his cast of dozens--Duke Wayne, Jimmy Dean (and the entire cast and crew of Rebel Without a Cause), Liberace, Elizabeth Taylor, "Bad Boy Bob Mitchum," and "Mattress Jack" Kennedy. It's a delirious thrill ride through the tabloid underbelly of Tinseltown, though it runs out of gas before providing much of a climax. Relentlessly rabid, for those with a taste for the seamier. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Harry said, "Be useful, kid. There's a cop killer at Georgia Street. Chief Horrall thinks you should take care of it. This is an opportunity you don't want to pass up." I said, "Take care of what? The cop he shot isn't dead." Harry rolled his eyes. He passed me a key fob. He said, "4-A-32. It's in the watch commander's space. Look under the backseat." I got it. Harry locked on my look. He went Nooowww, he gets it. He winked and waltzed away from me. I steadied myself and stood still. I loaded up on that lynch-mob gestalt. I lurched through the squadroom and zombie-walked downstairs. I hit the garage. I found the watch commander's space. There's 4-A-32. The key fits the ignition. The garage was dark. Ceiling pipes leaked. Water drops turned wiggy colors and morphed into wild shapes. I gunned the gas and pulled out onto Spring Street. I drove sloooooow. The heist geek was jacked in the jail ward. It was a lockup-transfer ruse. It was forty-three years ago. It's still etched in Sinemascope and surround sound. I can still see the passersby on the street. There it is. There's Georgia Street Receiving. The jail ward sat on the north side. The squarejohn ward sat to the south. A narrow pathway bisected the buildings. It hit me then: They know you'll do it. They know you're that kind of guy. I reached under the backseat. I pulled out transfer papers for Ralph Mitchell Horvath. I grabbed a .32 snubnose revolver. I put the gun in my front pocket and grabbed the papers. I slid out of the sled. I popped down the pathway and went through the jail-ward door. The deskman was PD. He pointed to a punk cuffed to a drainpipe. The punk wore a loafer jacket and slit-bottomed khakis. He sported a left-arm splint. He was acne-addled and chancre-sored. He vibed hophead. He looked smack-back insolent. The deskman did the knife-across-throat thing. I handed him the papers and uncuffed and recuffed the punk. The deskman said, "Bon voyage, sweetheart." I shoved the punk outside and pointed him up the pathway. He walked ahead of me. I couldn't feel my feet. I couldn't feel my legs. My heart hammered on overdrive. I lost my limbs somewhere. There's no telltale windows. There's no pedestrians on Georgia Street. There's no witnesses. I pulled the gun from my pocket and fired over my own head. The gun kicked and lashed life back in my limbs. My pulse topped 200 rpms. The punk wheeled around. He moved his lips. A word came out as a squeak. I pulled my service revolver and shot him in the mouth. His teeth exploded. He dropped. I placed the throwdown piece in his right hand. He tried to say "Please." This dream's a routine reenactment. The details veer and vary. The "Please" always sticks. I'm alive. He's not. That's the baleful bottom line. The cop lived. He sustained a through-and-through wound. He was back on duty inside a week. Vicious vengeance. Wrathfully wrong in retrospect. A crack in the crypt of my soul. Harry Fremont passed the word. Freddy O. is kosher. Chief C. B. Horrall sent me a jug of Old Crow. The grand jury sacked him two months later. He got caught up in a call-girl racket. An interim chief was brought in. Ralph Mitchell Horvath. 1918-1949. Car thief/stickup man/weenie wagger. Hooked on yellow jackets and muscatel. Ralphie left a widow and two kids. I got the gust-wind guilts and shot them penance payoffs. Money orders. Once a month. Fake signatures. All anonymous. Dig--Ralphie's dead, and I'm not. Excerpted from Widespread Panic: A Novel by James Ellroy All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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